To the people who have no way to get out of Irma’s path:

My prayers are with you.

While it is absolutely important to keep Florida in mind, please also ensure that international agencies and relief efforts do not forget about all the other places being devastated by this storm. Antigua, Barbuda, Anguilla, Montserrat, St. Kitts and Nevis, Saba, St. Eustatius, St. Martin, St. Barthelemy, British and US Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico, Vieques, and Culebra, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, and Cuba are ALL in the storms path too, and it is important to make sure we do not forget about them when the recovery, rescue, and restoration after Irma begins.

Irma has already made landfall in Barbuda (as of today, Sept. 6th 2017), and it is imperative that we remember these countries, islands, and occupied states are all about to be devastated too. And you know the USA is not going to help the occupied territories it has.

Irma damages in the Atlantic Ocean islands

Since this post isn’t about AMERICA I doubt it will get a lot of attention but here it goes. As you know, hurricane Irma is happening right now in the Atlantic Ocean. It will soon hit the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Cuba and Florida.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, I have seen only one post about what happened to Barbuda, Saint-Martin and Saint-Barthélémy in the Irma tag (to be fair, the post was only about Barbuda) so I thought I would make my own to inform people who might not know. Because I hope the reason people don’t talk about it is because they don’t know, and not because they don’t care.

Barbuda has been devastated. 95% of the properties have been damaged. A two-year-old has died. Telecommunication services no longer work. The airport cannot welcome flights. This island where 1638 people live is basically cut off from the rest of the world.

Saint-Martin and Saint-Barthélémy are two French islands (Saint-Martin is actually both French and Dutch). 95% of Saint-Martin has been destroyed. At least three people have died. Every single building has been damaged by the hurricane. There’s no water, no electricity. The main police station, the firemen station, the hospital and the prefecture have been swept. It was the freaking apocalypse. If you’re in mainland France, it’s nearly impossible for now to know if your friends and family who live in these islands are okay. I have no news of my family.

I’m not asking for much. I’m not asking you to send money. I’m just asking you to keep these people and their relatives in your thoughts and prayers, just like I will do for the people who might get hit the next few days. Thank you.


The Caribbean Islands.

Sorry to break it to you guys, but Jamaica is not the only Caribbean island. Here is a list to educate you guys.

Antigua and Barbuda (365 Beaches)
The Bahamas (yes, Altantis)
Barbados ( yea, Rihanna)
British Virgin Islands
Cayman Islands
Dominican Republic
Grenada (the Spice isle)
Jamaica ( yes, Bob Marley & Reggae )
Montserrat ( Yip, the volcano one 🌋)
Netherlands Antilles
Puerto Rico
Saint Barthelemy
Saint Kitts & Nevis
Saint Lucia (the Helen of the East)
Saint Martin
Saint Vincent
Trinidad & Tobago (My Home😍)
Turks & Caicos Islands
US Virgin Islands

How can Sherlock survive the true Final Problem if Moriarty and Mary have stolen the story?

Moriarty loves stories, fairytales. He planned everything like one. If we need to understand everything that happened since TRF, we just need to understand Appointment in Samarra. This is the key behind everything.

Sherlock is the merchant trying to outrun/outwit Death. If we consider Moriarty to represent Death (and Mary ultimately taking his title and his place in the narrative), Sherlock must find the one path to survive the Fall.

It begins with Sherlock/the merchant meeting Moriarty/Death and understanding, no, knowing that this person will take his life. So, he runs, he runs from his life in an attempt to escape his fate.

So, in the Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock fakes his death, thinking he’s done it. There was just a little problem with that plan:

The tale of Sir Boast-a-Lot, TRF never was the Final Problem, the same way the first meeting between the merchant and Death wasn’t supposed to end with the merchant’s death. Yes, Sherlock managed to escape Moriary’s plan but that was pointless. His appointment wasn’t in St Barthelemy Hospital.

Nor here.

Or even that, whatever that was.

We need to focus on this.

Because, ultimately Sherlock has been warned times and times again. Moriarty said it many times “I owe you a fall.” Not this little magic trick, no, don’t be silly. I’ll burn you, I’ll burn, the heart out of you. Survive this little game and you’ll have the privilege of seeing my real work.

Now, that’s more like it. You’ve got to admit, that’s sexier.

We both know you don’t care about your reputation, about the press slandering you. We both know that’s not your pressure point. But look how you care about John Watson. Well, your little pet, I’m going to take it from you. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go for him. That wife. Such a poor soul, so tragic. I’m sure she didn’t actually want to kill you, you were clearly a threat to her, if only you’ve told her you wanted to help her. Oh you did? Oopsie.

Well, the woman you call Mary? She’s going to take you everything, she will even break your little toy and there is nothing you can do about it. Enjoy the show.

Because John has always been and will always be his heart. He is the reason he decides to restart his, he is the reason he hasn’t killed himself like Jim. Separate them and death will be a kinder fate.

Somewhere, John or Sherlock is in terrible danger, dying and unable to escape his end. The electrocardiogram is still beating in TAB, like a phantom pain the wound still hurts Sherlock, John may or may have not escaped the bullet (no, a fuming gun don’t throw sleeping darts, it just can’t) “Eurus” shot.

Who cares how Sherlock survive the Reichenbah Falls? This wasn’t the point, this never was the Final Problem. Season 3 and Season 4 are the real thing.

Like a throwback to Jim in TRF, ‘Mary’ has become the author, the one calling the shots and stripped John of any narrative power. That is absolutely devastating, how can they survive if the two vilains have taken over the story so completely?

“Sherlock Holmes will now wear the silly hat because Mary liked it. It just felt right.She changed and illuminated the path of the show.”

Now that she is the one calling the shots, both men’s hearts are effectively reduced to ashes. Their identities have been stripped and they have become actors in their own lives.

Who you really are, it doesn’t matter. It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures.

This is Appointment in Samarra, you can’t avoid Death, not when the vilains are the one reading the story since TRF. This is predeterminism, all roads were leading to this ending. No matter how much Sherlock’s struggled, the author aka Jim/Mary has always planned this ending. Resistance has always been futile.

And yet… there is one fic that managed to save the merchant. Appointment in Sumatra may be a mere fanfic, Sherlock has succeeded in changing the ending. Mary, the new author, may have stripped John of everything that was him, he remains the first narrator.

The game isn’t over. This is a struggle between the two authors that have decided to destroy the story and the fans who need to find the one path that will save the merchant. Jim/Mary vs Sherlock and John, or if we are very daring between Mofftiss and the fans.

Samarra can be avoided but dear God, that’s going to a hell of a ride to save Sherlock Holmes. We just need to completely rewrite the ending, to let John take back his narrative power and let him lead Sherlock to Sumatra and avoid Samarra.

Only that.

Real Enough To Touch (Gaston x Reader)

Part 4 of “Another Look Around”

Originally posted by luuuuuke-evans

World Count: Freaking 3,240

Warnings: None

Tags: @timeskipeleven @with-a-hint-of-pesto-aioli @lovelylpevensie @mmegaston @lj-laufeypevensieweasley @juggernaut-jones (pretty sure I got everyone, but if I didn’t, just lemme know)

A/N: mkay so I wrote this at like 2:30 this morning, which is usually when I’m most awake, but for some reason I was hella tired, and I was just trying to write as much as I could before I fell asleep, then when I woke up this morning and read thru it, I didn’t even remember writing half of it so here we go

Day had expired long ago; the moon was once again shinning its brightest and your mother couldn’t keep her mouth shut about Gaston.

After inviting him to stay for lunch, the two of them had exhausted every word in the English language, chatting about everything from weather, to Gaston’s time served as a military captain, to whether or not the hydrangeas in your mother’s flower beds would bloom late this year. You and Belle had sat together, looking on in awe as they talked away for two whole hours. At first you were nervous about how Belle might behave around him, but seeing how she never got a chance to say anything, it hadn’t been a problem.

Every now and then, taking the opportunity presented while your mother was yammering on, Gaston had glanced at you, tossing you a smirk or winking, or both at the same time, to which you couldn’t help but grin and blush.

The conversation didn’t reduce when it came time to eat either. You and Belle finished in silence while Gaston and your mother were barely able to touch their plates at all. Afterwards Gaston offered to help with clearing, but your mother brushed him off, insisting that she was sure that he had much more important things to attend to. Then, while Belle subtly distracted her for a few seconds, you’d grabbed Gaston and pulled him outside before your mother could initiate another discussion about knitting patterns or ancient family soup recipes.

Finally alone, you’d taken the moment to arrange plans for your next outing, then Gaston had left you with a kiss on your hand and a promise of a great hunting adventure later in the week.

When your father returned later that night, he revealed that he had met Gaston on the way home and spent a good amount of time speaking with him. Apparently it was a stimulating conversation, because he had plenty to contribute to your mother’s praises.

Well, you thought to yourself as your mother went on about how pleasant and welcoming she’d found Gaston’s voice, at least there won’t be any trouble obtaining their approval of him.

You caught yourself with a start. Your parents’ voices faded as you realized that you were now actually considering courting Gaston. It was no longer like those times in the past when the thought made you giggle or roll your eyes. It was real this time. It was actual consideration. You went to bed early, then continued to think about the situation as you lay under the covers, gazing out your window at the dark rooftops of the neighboring houses. The concept of being with Gaston was gaining popularity in your head.

It was easy to imagine waking up to the thought of him, not being able to breathe until he was by your side. Being able to take his hand and brush your lips against it whenever you liked, being able to stand on your toes to kiss his cheek or his nose, running your fingers through his dark hair, and looking into his stunning eyes as he laughed and pulled you closer.

You could imagine the sensation of his lips on yours with such ease that for a few brief moments you questioned whether or not you were imagining, or remembering.

These were the thoughts and ideas that took your stomach made your heart stutter.

You rolled into your back and sighed in frustration, realizing that you had become a living, breathing cliché. You might as well put a stupid wig on your head and join up with the Bimbettes, following the captain around everywhere he went with hearts in your eyes. Just like nearly every woman in town, you had become fascinated with the tall, dark and handsome Gaston.

You didn’t want to admit it, but it’d happened so sudden and unexpectedly that you’d had no chance to stop it.

You groaned out loud and reached over to the other side of your bed, snatching up a pillow, stuffing it over your face and shutting your eyes.

 “(Y/N)…for heaven’s sake, (Y/N), wake up.”

   You cried out as someone smacked you on the leg with what felt like a book. Growling, you pried your eyes open and sat up abruptly.

   Belle sat smiling on the edge of your bed, sure enough holding Romeo and Juliet in her hand.

   “Unnecessary,” you grumbled, placing a pillow behind your back.

   “Amusing,” Belle countered, scooting forward to place her knee on the bed. You narrowed your eyes and stuck your tongue out at her before nodding towards the copy on her lap. “You finished it?” you inquired, rubbing your hands across your tired face. Belle’s eyes filled with a fusion of joy and heartbreak. “Yes,” she drawled. You chuckled, your voice deep and heavy with sleep. “Bad ending?”

   “Perfect ending! It’s so beautifully tragic -”

   “Shhh!” you hushed quickly. “I might want to read it someday.”

   Belle grinned and tucked the book closer to her side almost protectively. “You should. You’d like it.”

   With a yawn you replied, “Pure romance. Not really my favorite genre.”

   She quirked an eyebrow. “Just wait till the day you fall deeply in love. You won’t be able to get enough of it.”

   You stuffed a pillow in her face, causing her to shriek.

   “Careful!” she exclaimed, shoving the pillow away before raising her other hand, revealing a bundle of gorgeous wildflowers in her grasp. Your eyes widened. Belle rolled hers.

   “These,” she said, handing the blossoms to you. “were on your doorstep this morning. I can only imagine who they’re from.”

   You ignored her, noticing the red silk ribbon tied around the stems. You fought off a smile as a warm feeling sprouted in your stomach.

   “He’s certainly doesn’t have any shortage of romanticism in him,” Belle admitted, leaning back on one arm as you inhaled the fresh perfume of the bouquet. “No he doesn’t,” you murmured, secretly enjoying the simple gesture more than you should’ve. Suffice it to say that with Gaston you were never bored.

   “Well,” you said, stretching. “I guess I should get these in some water. You off to Pere Robert’s?” Belle nodded, sliding off the bed so that you could get up. “I hope he has some new arrivals this week. His shipments usually come so slowly. I’ll have to hurry though, the clouds look like they’re about to burst.”

   You glanced out the window at the stormy looking sky, feeling a prick of excitement. You and Belle walked down the stairs together, then she bid you goodbye while you searched for a vase in which to put Gaston’s flowers. After locating one and filling it with water, you placed the flowers inside, returned to your room and set the jar on your bedside table. The sweet aroma was already beginning to fill the area.

   Half an hour later you were dressed, hair tidied, bed made and ready for breakfast. It only occurred to you on your second visit to the kitchen that neither your mother nor father were anywhere to be seen as they usually were. You grabbed an apple from a bowl on the table, then made your way to the common area, only to find it empty as well. With a frown, you decided to search in the back of the house. where you were finally successful.

   Your mother stood on the doorstep, looking on proudly as your father and Maurice hurried to attach a glossy new black iron gate to a matching fence that encircled the entire rear flower and vegetable beds. The old rusted barrier was lying in a heap of pealing brown bars a few feet from the house, and you immediately remembered about your father and Belle’s going to see Monsieur Barthelemy about a new fence the previous morning.

   You stepped towards your mother and grasped her arm disbelievingly. “Mama, when you said that Papa wanted to replace the fence, I thought he was talking about something cheap until we could get something better.”

   “That was what he thought too!” your mother sang, patting your hand. A few peals of thunder rumbled through the clouds, and the air thickened with humidity.

   “Then what on earth is that?” you exclaimed, gesturing towards the masterfully sculpted posts embellished with decorative fleur de lis and painted a flawless black. “Something like that does not come cheap, especially if it’s coming from Monsieur Barthelemy. Mama, we can’t afford -”  

   You were interrupted by your father striding towards you with a look the greatest delight imaginable on his features. “(Y/N), darling!” he said, waving a hand at the finished perimeter. “Isn’t it wonderful? Barthelemy and his apprentices were up all night constructing it.”

   “Yes, Papa, it’s wonderful. That’s the problem. How exactly do you intend to pay for all this?”

   “It’s already been payed for,” Maurice voiced as he rose from his knees, wiping his hands on a wet rag. You frowned. “What?”

   The first few drops of rain had begun to splash at your feet and dribble on your hair, prompting your mother to hurry everyone inside.

   “Yes, every single piece,” your father finished, gazing fondly at the fence through the open door. “When Maurice and I arrived at Barthelemy’s this morning to arrange an order, it was finished. He said that an anonymous client had placed the order for his finest work yesterday evening. Even paid him extra to have it done by today and to keep quiet about it.”

   Your eyes were now wide as they gazed at your father. You were about to speak when he held up his hand. He was smiling satisfactorily.

   “I told you last night that I ran into Monsieur Gaston on the way home. I told him where I’d been and my purpose for my trip. He was the only one other than our blacksmith and Maurice and I who knew anything about the matter.” He gave a short chuckle then added, “And besides, Barthelemy confirmed it himself. Keeping his mouth shut never was one of that man’s talents.”

   Your heart did a sort of somersault. Outside, the rain had begun to beat down with a vengeance, the ground vibrating with occasional cracks of thunder. You couldn’t say a word. You couldn’t even think straight.

   Your father laughed at your expression, placing his hands on your shoulders. “I told you he was a good fellow, that Gaston!” he said merrily over the sound of the rain. He kissed your forehead before shuffling his way past you into the kitchen where your mother and Maurice were already talking about the downpour.

   You stood in place for several moments, turning over your father’s words in your head. A muggy breeze blew through the door, spraying your face with raindrops.

   “Oh, goodness,” your mother called towards you. “(Y/N) please close that door before we have a floor on our hands.”

   However instead of obeying, you did the last thing any of the adults expected you to do.

   You stepped over the threshold and sprinted out into the garden.

   You heard your mother’s startled yelp from inside, but ignored it as you splashed barefoot through the patches of flowers, mud seeping between your toes and spattering the the skirt of your pale green dress. You carefully swung yourself over the new fence, then ran along the side of the house until you came to the front, unhesitatingly dashing out into the practically deserted street beyond.

   Most of the vendors had already folded up their shops, but the occasional few who were still scrambling to pack up their wares gave you odd glances as you ran by, already soaked to the bone and looking as if you were late for some extremely important engagement in the rain.

    You scanned the town square hastily, disregarding the bustling villagers fleeing towards shelter, for none of them matched the description of the one person you wanted to find. You adjusted your position to stand in the exact middle of the square, holding your hair back from your face and squinting through the rain, turning in a slow circle to survey each inch of the visible landscape. And that was when you spotted him.

   He stood a few feet from the tavern, trying quickly to untangle his horse from the post to which it was tied, and not succeeding. His tan coat wasn’t as easy to spot as his flamboyantly red one, but you recognized him regardless from the span of his broad shoulders and his dark, wet hair.

   You walked to stand closer to him, then called over the deluge, “One time when I was little, I was playing outside of the blacksmith’s shop and I accidentally kicked a pebble that knocked over one of Miss Marita’s flowerpots.”

   Gaston wheeled at the sound of your voice, his hands abandoning their work with his horse’s reins. You seemed to have a knack for catching him at moments when he didn’t expect it. His lips were parted as he frowned at you, clearly wondering why in the world you hadn’t chosen somewhere a little drier to confront him. Nevertheless, you went on, taking slow steps towards him with every sentence.

   “I begged Monsieur Barthelemy not to tell that I was the one who broke it, but he did anyway, and to this day it’s still the reason Miss Marita charges me extra for eggs.” You smiled, now within feet of each other. “Barthelemy’s never been good at keeping secrets, Gaston. Not even ones he’s payed to keep.”

   A look of realization dawned on his face, “Ah,” he said with a guilty laugh. “Well then, remind me never to do business with him again.” He brought one hand up to swipe through his hair, keeping the soaked strands off his forehead. You shook your head, still smiling disbelievingly.

   “That metalwork on that fence would be considered a masterpiece even by a city blacksmith,” you continued, moving closer. “It wasn’t like simply buying a gift for an old friend.”

   Gaston shifted his shoulders and responded, “Wasn’t it?”

   You looked him squarely in the eyes. “Gaston, that order must’ve cost more than Barthelemy earns in a year, without the extra it took for him to keep his mouth not-so-shut.”

   The former captain licked his lips as droplets of rain streamed down his tanned face. In close quarters, you had to look up quite a bit to maintain eye contact, but that didn’t mean that you didn’t notice - or appreciate - the way the rain had turned his white shirt partially see-through and caused it to cling to his chest, displaying every sculpted muscle in his midsection. His brown pants too were leaving nothing to the imagination. The way the rain slid slowly down his neck and turned his hair curly was enough to give you butterflies.

   “Trust me, (Y/N),” he said eventually, no longer needing to keep his voice raised with you standing so close. “The cost was nothing compared to the joy it brought me to provide such a needed gift to your father.”

   Your eyebrows shot up, and before you knew it you were laughing.

   “Are you even real?” you asked incredulously, hardly able to believe the words coming from his mouth. Gaston smiled, causing those infamous creases to form around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. You couldn’t help thinking that in all the time you’d known him, he’d never looked so breathtakingly beautiful as he did now, drenched from head to foot in the warm spring rain.

   “Real enough to touch,” he said, his voice emanating softly from his chest as he brought his hand up and brushed your dripping hair off your shoulder, lingering his touch on the side of your neck.

   Your breath hitched in your throat, and almost in slow motion, you felt your own hand rising to cover his. Gaston’s eyes flickered with something indistinguishable, and he instantly took the moment to swipe his thumb across your cheek, leaving tingles behind on your skin.

  After a few seconds he shuffled his feet forward slightly, and you had to tilt your chin even higher to look into those dark, hazel eyes that could almost certainly see straight into your mind. His right hand soon mimicked the position of his left, his fingertips sliding ever so slightly into your hair. In a reflexive kind of way, you brought both of your hands to settle around his forearms, the soft, moist fabric of his jacket beneath your palms.

   The rain continued to fall in sheets, and despite his previous efforts, several strands of Gaston’s hair came loose from their manicured style and fell across his forehead. As he leaned even nearer, his eyes fell to your lips, and in that instant, you swore that your heart stopped and stood still inside your chest. His actions were slow and gentle, something that you never would’ve guessed from him.

   But none of that mattered. The world silently washed away like the heavy June shower as Gaston dipped his head, his eyes fluttering shut before he grazed his lips over yours, barely enough to feel more than a whisper of his touch.

   You’d never felt your heart soar so high. There was a fiery sensation spreading through every inch of your being, causing you to feel weightless but still real. Invincible but still vulnerable. And there was only one word you could think of to describe the feeling.


   When Gaston pulled away, it was just for an instant, a mere few seconds to look at you and read your reaction. And in that precious moment he realized with a shock to his insides that he had never before in his life seen anything of such an otherworldly beauty then you standing there in front of him, eyes closed in pure bliss and water spilling down your cheeks.

   Then his mouth was on yours again, but his time with more than just a simple touch. This time his lips moved against yours with an intensity fueled by pure passion. A passion which you readily returned.

   You pushed yourself onto your toes, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling your body against his. Gaston kissed you even deeper, tilting his head to the side and grasping you by the waist, keeping your entire body as tightly against his as was possible. His actions were slow but electrifying.

   He was savoring every instant, and so were you. It became clear that both of you had been waiting, even pining after this moment for far too long, even if one of you had been reluctant to admit it.

   The taste of rain that mixed through the kiss, the feeling of his arms around you, desperate to keep you close, the obvious desire and love that coursed from your combined movements…

    The sound of high-pitched wails echoing off the stone courtyard pulled you from ecstasy back into the world around you, and with difficulty you drew back from Gaston.

   The three sisters, Claudette, Laurette and Paulette were standing under the awning of the cloth-merchant’s, huge crocodile tears pouring down their faces, cutting paths through the white powder on their faces and causing the black around their eyes to melt down onto their cheeks.

   You bit your lip and leaned your head against Gaston’s shoulder with a quiet, “Oops…”

    His laughter rumbled in his chest as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.


It all began to unfold when police were searching for 24-year-old, Shannan Gilbert, a Craigslist escort who had disappeared in May 2010 after meeting a client by the name of Joseph Bewer near Oak Beach. Something had spooked Shannan and she fled his home, screaming. She made a phone call to 911 in which she exclaimed “They’re trying to kill me!” before begging one his his neighbours for help. Her driver, Michael Pak, had tried her to get back into his car but she refused. She carried on running away. From what, nobody knows for sure. The last time she was seen alive, she was running up the street, screaming and begging for help but to no avail.

The Suffolk County Police paid no attention to her disappearance due to the fact that she was an escort. It wasn’t until seven months later that they finally investigated the case and what they discovered, would shock the entire world - four bodies evenly spaced out along Ocean Parkway, wrapped in burlap, none of which were Shannan. They found the body of Maureen Brainard-Barnes who went missing three years earlier, Melissa Barthelemy who went missing in 2009, Megan Waterman who went missing a month after Shannan, and Amber Lynn Costello who went missing earlier in the year. The women were similar to Shannan in that they were all petite women in their 20′s and all worked as Craigslist escorts. They had all been strangled elsewhere and then dumped.

Over the next year, six more bodies, and body parts, were discovered around the same area of Gilgo and Oak Beach. Among the bodies was that of an Asian man wearing a dress and a young toddler, who is believed to be the child of one of the escort’s found. Five of the discovered victims, including the aforementioned three, still remain unidentified. Authorities believe that all ten bodies are the victim of one serial killer, who has become known as “The Long Island Serial Killer” and also commonly referred to as “The Gilgo Killer.”

On 13, December, 2011, the body of Shannan Gilbert, the woman who set off the investigation, was finally discovered. She was found nearby in a swamp. Authorities ruled her death as accidental, but many people, her mother included, do not share this view due to the fact that she fits the victim profile of the women who have been killed by this unidentified serial killer. She was also discovered in the same area as the other victims and this would not explain the terror and fear of something or someone that she experienced on the night of her disappearance.

Ten more bodies have been discovered in the same area but authorities have not linked them to The Long Island Serial Killer. It appears as though the area had been a dumping ground for serial killers for many years, including Joel Rifkin.

Clock - Representing an Athenian Warrior from the Battle of Marathon. 1830. Barthelemy Sr de Maisons Bould. marble and bronze.   http;//

Benjamin Brunken, Robby Guillemin, David Prat, Francois Durel, Jeremy Biscarro, Kevin Stranart, Merlin Barthelemy, Robin Massonneau, Simon Adde, Thibault Gildas & Xavier Buestel Photographed by Julien Faucher